


A Kinder Word For Stupidity

by Godtiss



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Gen, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-13
Updated: 2012-04-13
Packaged: 2017-11-03 13:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Godtiss/pseuds/Godtiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's wing is shot while he's protecting John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Kinder Word For Stupidity

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an anonymous prompt on tumblr.

“You _idiot_.”

Sherlock attempts a lazy smirk, twists it into a painful scowl as John wraps a firm arm around his waist. His left wing hangs limply behind him, primaries dragging on the damp concrete of the alley, the black feathers dripping blood to pool with the stagnant puddles underfoot. John shakes his head, matching the detective scowl-for-scowl.

“You great, bloody _idiot_.”

Lestrade appears from the depths of the alley, dragging the unconscious, handcuffed shooter behind him. He dumps him next to a pile of rubbish, casts a worried gaze over at the pair of them huddled next to the wall. Sherlock’s back arcs slightly against John’s arm, as though the blood-drenched feathers weigh him down. 

“Ambulance will be here in moment,” the Detective Inspector offers, the phantom sounds of sirens backing his words. 

Sherlock huffs a breath of laughter between clenched teeth. “It’s a wing, Lestrade, not a leg. I’d have better luck seeing a veterinarian.” 

All eyes shift to John, who can do nothing but nod. “I’ll take him home. If I can’t patch him up I’m sure there’s someone on his brother’s staff who can.”

They leave before the sirens arrive, making the short trip back to Baker Street on foot – no cab would willingly carry a badly bleeding angel, and John’s wallet is pitifully empty as it is. Sherlock leans heavily against his side, the sound of his wing dragging on the sidewalk behind them, undoubtedly leaving a nice trail of blood straight back to his front door. 

John will worry about that later. 

The stairs prove to be a challenge – John ends up half-carrying the detective up to the bathroom, depositing him in the bathtub while he digs through the cabinets for his first-aid kit. 

“I don’t think I need to tell you how unbelievably stupid that was.” 

“A bullet to my wing or a bullet to your shoulder – possibly your heart, I couldn’t tell the exact angle in the dark. Either way, it seemed a fair trade.”

“Next time don’t go chasing armed madmen down dark alleys.”

“Don’t-“

Whatever Sherlock is about to say is cut off by a sharp yelp as a damp cloth is suddenly pressed to the gaping hole in his wing. His head falls forward with a dull thud, forehead resting on the tiled wall and eyes clenched shut, breath coming short and fast.

“I’ve got to get it clean,” John says by way of apology. If Sherlock hears him, he gives no outward indication.

“I have painkillers here, if you want them. I’m going to need to stitch this up once I’m done.” 

A low groan. “Won’t work.”

“Will anything?”

Sherlock opens one eye, fixes John in his gaze. “A blow to the back of the head might.” 

John is startled into a laugh. “I’m not adding concussion to the list of you injuries for the night. I think gunshot is enough.”

“Cruel,” Sherlock murmurs.

John works silently after that, focus solely directed at the cleaning of the wound. One hand absentmindedly strokes the dark feathers of the uninjured wing and slowly Sherlock stops flinching every time the cloth comes into contact with the ruined tissue and muscle and feathers. 

The stitching takes the better part of a half an hour. Sherlock grits his teeth and hisses through the pain while John works as quickly and efficiently as he can to get the hole closed. By the time he finishes and wraps the wing with a clean bandage, Sherlock is half-conscious leaning against the wall, shaking silently.

John pushes sweat-damp hair away from the detective’s forehead, coaxes him into standing long enough for John to slip an arm around his waist again, directing him towards the bedroom. Sherlock collapses slowly onto the bed, on his stomach with his wing held awkwardly to the side and John winces because that can’t be comfortable.

But he doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know how to help so he settles beside the detective, stroking the uninjured wing lightly until the tension eases from Sherlock’s body, bandaged wing draping over the side of the bed.

“Thank you for saving my life, you idiot,” he says, presses a kiss to Sherlock’s tangled curls.

He receives a faint hum in response. “Welcome.”


End file.
